Empty House
by BBCRULES
Summary: Two years passed. John was visiting the old flat at a wrong time...or was it a bad timing? Chapter 1: Empty house. Chapter 2: Friends protect each other. Chapter 3: closure. Chapter 1, and 3 occurs simultaneously. All characters are fictional. Thanks for reading. Reviews are very very appreciated.
1. Empty House

I hope you enjoy this. Another possible "empty house" scene... Two years passed since the fall. John's path didn't come across Moran's path. He by accident visited the old flat at a wrong time, or was it a right time? All the characters are fictional. Thank you for reading. Comments are very welcome:)

I had to modify a little: this happens two years after the fall.

* * *

It was just like any other nights.

Friday after a hectic week.

John had just finished his shift, grabbed his jacket, and was passing by the lobby. There had been a surge of cold and flu patients for days despite the season - June. Weather extremes... The place looked almost abandoned now.

There was an old lady who was supported by a woman, possibly her daughter. She looked starkly like his former landlady. Mrs. Hudson had invited him over dinner last week. At the last minute, the doctor had ask for a rain check because he had to work a longer shift. John decided to call Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello."

"Hello. Mrs. Hudson."

"John. It's lovely to hear your voice. How are you?"

"Good. I'm sorry that I had to cancel it last week. So many flu patients… How are you? Your voice is…"

"Cold, I guess… A couple of paracetamol will do."

"I can check on you if you like."

"Oh, John. I'm so glad to hear it. I've just made a potful of cheese and onion soup."

"Sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson. I'm leaving now. Given the traffic, twenty minutes... half an hour?"

"Hold on. Someone's outside the door. I'll be right back."

John could hear her footsteps, a click of the door, a silence for seconds, and her outcry.

"Mrs. Hudson, Are you there? Are you okay? Mrs. Hudson…"

There was no answer.

Panicked, John dashed outside and headed to his old flat. He called Lestrade, not 999. He thought it would be quicker and quieter – it could be nothing, just his overreaction again. Lestrade answered his second call.

"John?"

"Greg. By any chance, can you check on Mrs. Hudson?"

John tersely explained what had just happened. The DI sounded worried: luckily he was in the vicinity of the flat, at less than five-minute-car-ride distance. He promised to call back.

The traffic thinned out without a warning near Baker Street. John was outside the building after fifteen minutes, much earlier than his expectation. The street seemed to have been abandoned. No sign of pedestrians, a few cars that he could recognize like the white Mini, the one of Speedy's owner, and a couple of unfamiliar grey vans without windows caught his eyes at the opposite sides of the street.

John noticed the door was ajar - possibly Greg had just made it. The cafe was closed. There was a memo that said they had closed earlier today.

_It's weird. Mr. __Chatterje__'s car is still there.__ Greg... Where is his car?_

Wondering, John walked in, calling out Mrs. Hudson and Greg.

Silence.

The door of 221A was open. He looked around the sitting room: tidy-as-ever. Smells of her onion soup and grilled cheese. His mouth watered. Only the receiver of her phone was off the hook. He placed it back. Empty. No sign of forced entry and struggles.

Then he heard it. Music from upstairs. To come to think of it, the upstairs was lighted when he walked in. Much relieved, he headed to the staircase.

It had been six months that he moved out: the commute to his new job was the excuse, but the real reason was that he didn't want to live on "favor" from Mycroft: the older Holmes still paid for the flat in full. John hadn't given it a thought up to now. For two years, he had kept paying money for his dead brother's flat. Walking upstairs, he started to wonder why. He called out her name again.

"Mrs. Hudson. Did you turn the music on?"

At the half landing, he stopped. It was violin music. Bach's violin sonata... _His_ favorite.

_It can't be. Is it a joke_?

John ran up the rest of the stairs. He was about to dash into the sitting room when someone grabbed him from behind. John struggled hard to break free but the man was unbelievably strong. Instantly he was overpowered. A gag on his mouth: his muffled cry was barely audible. The stranger pointed at his chest with a pistol, gesturing the doctor to follow.

_Did I just walk into an armed robbery? Impossible. The flat's under surveillance. That's what Mycroft had told me last time. If it were, then he would know immediately._

Something caught his eyes. John stopped resisting. A silhouette of a dark-haired man in blue dressing gown with a violin in his hand at the window near the fire-place.

_It looked like him. No. Am I hallucinating? _

One more poke from the gun. John headed to the upstairs bedroom, his old room. There was another standing guard near the window. A woman was peeking out the window. The men were well-armed. Their eyes, the way that they acted…- they were not robbers. They were specially trained agents or soldiers from Special Forces.

The room was very dark. The drape was almost pulled down without light.

John could see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade when his eyes got used to darkness. Greg removed the gag for John. John didn't have any idea about what it was all about. He gave the Di a quizzical look. The DI shrugged it off, hinting that he was as clueless as the doctor was except that they were in the middle of a military operation.

Ten minutes.. Twenty minutes... Thirty minutes... They could hear the music repeating itself.

A crack. The sounds of breaking glass. Then a thump with china shattering.

John was almost screaming the name of his friend, "Sherlock". Then he heard it: the sound of a couple shots from a sniper rifle from the next room.

There was a scurry of movements downstairs – footsteps, radio communications, closing sirens of emergency vehicles. The man who had attacked John opened the door and gestured the trio out.

They blinked their eyes for seconds and staggered downstairs. Lestrade helped Mrs. Hudson as John dashed into the sitting room. On the floor was a very sophisticated mannequin - not a common faceless one that you can see in shop windows - with its head burst off from its neck. A big porcelain vase fell, broken into pieces on the carpet. He noticed,

_Accuracy of Fire. A shot from a sniper, by someone with an excellent marksmanship_.

A curly black wig, _his_ blue night-gown, _his_ violin cracked. No, it was a cheap version. The MP3 player kept playing the violin sonata.

_Is this a prank? Why? Special military operation. Mycroft's behind this?_

His mind was busy putting the pieces of new information into a plausible story. He just couldn't.

_Mycroft had told us that there were snipers. Why the mannequin, not us? Someone was still after him. Does that mean he is not dead?_

His heart was pounding hard. A small hope that hadn't died away flickered back. Feeling his face burning, he turned off the player and looked out the cracked window.

The shot must have been fired from the opposite building. The street wasn't deserted anymore. Emergency vehicles filled the street. A few soldiers of Special Forces unit were surrounding the unmarked windowless vans. A coroner's van had just arrived. A trolley with a body bag was wheeled out from the opposite building. Overhead one chopper roared as its blade churned the air.

He didn't notice that a man had just entered the sitting room at the moment; Mycroft followed. Greg muttered out a short cry of shock. Mrs. Hudson started to sob hysterically. In alarm, the doctor was about to turn around when he heard the low voice, _his_ voice.

"John"

His eyes found a ghost of his friend next to Mycroft.

_He's…Sherlock Holmes._

John's legs gave in and everything just swirled into darkness.

* * *

An hour later, the detective was sitting on the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson. She was holding both hands of the sleuth tight and he didn't dare to break free. John was on his old armchair, Lestrade on the other. Mycroft was standing near the fireplace. They mostly listened while the sleuth talked. There was a tray of soup bowls but it was forgotten by everyone in the room.


	2. Friends protect each other

I tried to describe John who got over Sherlock's death rather well, and moved on. Sherlock would've wanted John to live a full life. This is a pre-story of "Empty House". Thank you for reading. Comments are very welcome.

* * *

**A secret government facility**

The door of the morgue opened. Two tall men walked out after identifying the body, James Moriarty. One looked as if he could go to a ball any moment while the other was all patched up, with one arm in a plaster cast. Their faces were grim; their voices were low whispers.

Moriarty had nothing but a mobile, a gun and a wallet with cash only. The mobile didn't have that much information. Apparently there were a few missed calls from a mysterious caller in that morning. Stayin Alive was the ringtone that the criminal had been listening to when the detective arrived at the roof. Sherlock said,

"Moriarty wasn't listening to the music. He was ignoring the incoming call. In the pool, he had taken a call. What's different this time? It wasn't from his potential client. It must have been the number that he knew well, one of his associates."

After a moment, he continued,

"Moriarty had to face me alone. He was so sure of his victory. The call was from someone who tried to assist Moriarty. That's why he ignored it."

Mycroft answered,

"There's a high possibility that the caller ditched the mobile. We have to find it and the caller."

A few days later, a phone was retrieved from the pond in front of the Barbican Library: the pond was being drained for an annual clean-up. The newest Galaxy model. No fingerprints. Luckily its sim card was inside. The number was under a name, Ronald Adair, a lieutenant who was found dead with a gunshot on the head in Kabul, Afghanistan a few years earlier. Given the mobile model was released in 2012, it couldn't have been Adair's. Someone close to him must have been using it. Adair had gambling problems and was about to get discharged in dishonor. His death was considered as a suicide.

A dead-end.

The dead lieutenant seemed to have been close to few "gambling" buddies. Two of them had died in battles, and the only one alive was Colonel Moran, but his whereabouts was unknown. He had left the army around the time of Adair's death. The army record showed that the Colonel was an exemplary soldier with medals of valor and many badges. Over the recent three years, there had been no records of him what-so-ever.

Sherlock decided to leave England to break down Moriarty's vast network around the world as his wounds from the fall were healed. As long as John believed his death, his friends were safe. Mycroft promised maximum surveillance on John and the others. Two days before leaving, the sleuth sneaked into the cemetery and watched his friend and Mrs. Hudson visit his empty grave.

* * *

**Greg Lestrade's Flat, three months after the fall.**

Greg Lestrade was sitting in his dark living room, drinking beer and pondering over the call from the Yard. The committee decided to shorten his suspension today. He could go back to his job next week. It was an unexpected welcome yet he kept wondering why.

Obviously most cases that had involved Sherlock Holmes were scrutinized and validated. Quite significant number of officers had risen to restore the honor of the dead sleuth. For example, DI Dimmock who was working in Wales had visited the Yard three times to testify. The young DI was one of the few who didn't' lose faith in Sherlock Holmes. Dimmock used to call Sherlock for an advice even after he was transferred outside London, and knew that Sherlock couldn't have cracked so many cases of his with a few phone calls and image files sent via e-mail.

It had been almost three months since Sherlock committed a suicide. On that day, there was one more suicide in the hospital. However the other suicide had never been reported. Scotland Yard didn't, rather couldn't investigate it because the secret service had intervened.

_Who's the second body? Why?_

Lestrade decided to talk to John.

* * *

When Ambassador Bruhl asked Sherlock Holmes to find his kidnapped children, the sleuth didn't disappoint anybody. After a few hours, he led the Yard officers into a used sweet factory in Addlestone. Even Donovan seemed to thaw up towards the detective when she invited "amateurs" in the interrogation room. No one had expected what was to follow. Claudette Bruhl screamed when she saw Sherlock entering.

Everything started to fall apart. The stupid raid. _His_ suicide...

He was just back from Baker Street. His face started to swell. To relieve pain and swelling, Lestrade made an ice pack using a couple of ice cubes. Applying the pack, he was just heading towards his office when a rookie detective saluted him and said, "Sir."

"What is it?"

"Sir, there's someone waiting for you."

Lestrade knew every officer's eyes were following him. The frenzy reporting of _his_ suicide: it happened in the morning and every British citizen would know about it by now. He wondered if the bloody reporters would be allowed at the funeral. Funeral... He coiled at the word.

_How could I attend his funeral when I know everybody, even Mrs. Hudson, despised me? What's next now?_

He couldn't care less. All the hell would break loose for him anyway. He moved heavily towards his office.

It would be like an eye of a hurricane before the funeral. Then John Watson was certain to be summoned as a key witness in everything: the kidnapping, the suicide, and most of the past cases that Sherlock had been involved. John himself might face a charge of assault against the Chief Superintendent. His boss did look very angry when Sherlock took John as hostage and ran away. Greg barely slept that night. Strangely, there was no APW and his boss didn't mention last night's fiasco at all when he arrived at the Yard early in the morning.

A misconduct hearing would follow. Almost all the past cases that Sherlock had cracked might have to be investigated again. The best he could expect was a suspension. Or he might have to leave. He wasn't sure if he could be eligible for a full pension. Looking defeated, Greg opened his door and found a stranger, possibly an agent from the secret service.

After half an hour, Lestrade stared blankly at the door that closed behind the woman. She left more questions than answers although she had delivered some good news for him.

The Ambassador had asked to close the kidnapping case as soon as possible. This morning the girl told her mother that the kidnapper had forced her to scream if she saw a man in the picture – Sherlock's wearing the deerstalker. Sherlock Holmes was off the hook: the Yard would have to continue the investigation - protocol. If only Greg had believed _him_, then _he_ would be still alive and well. The guilt would never go away. There was another news that Lestrade hadn't expected. The secret service was taking over the investigation of the two suicides at Bart's. Another body was found on the rooftop. A suicide from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. No details would be released to the media.

After the funeral, the disciplinary committee decided to give Lestrade a three-month suspension, which was surprisingly lenient.

* * *

**Therapist Office**

John tearfully whispered, "Sorry, I can't."

Ella tried a few more times to open up John Watson to no avail. John was scheduling the next counseling when Greg Lestrade walked into the waiting room. John flinched, not expecting him here. The DI looked uncomfortable, fidgeting and avoiding his eyes. John could've just walked out, but his face softened when he saw Lestrade's face. He looked worse, by far worse... Three-month suspension. The guilt over the nightly raid. The stupid attempt to arrest Sherlock. Lestrade was suffering. DI Dimmock had called John with the news. John gave a terse nod.

"John."

"Greg."

"Can we talk?"

John shrugged and didn't object when Greg headed to a nearby café.

Greg wasn't supposed to tell John about the secret service's involvement. He didn't give a damn. John's eyebrows furrowed into a thin line when the DI talked about the meeting with a secret service agent.

"The body had to be Jim Moriarty's. They had to finish the game. I thought it odd that the media didn't mention anything about Moriarty. I didn't know Moriarty had killed himself."

"On the roof, something did happen and Moriarty was dead. Sherlock killed himself. John, by any chance..."

"No."

John cut in bluntly.

"I don't think Sherlock had killed Moriarty. You said it was a suicide, right?"

"Yes. Then Sherlock might have jumped at a gunpoint..."

"Sherlock? No, unless there was something that made him jump. What could have driven him to such an extreme choice?"

In silence, the two men drank their coffee.

"He called me. Strange choice of words... Wait, he knew Mrs. Hudson was okay. How? Who could have made the fake call?"

Lestrade shook his head, feeling sorry to make John remember again. The doctor asked,

" Did you retrieve his mobile? I saw him throw it away."

"I think the secret service had taken it, too."

John seemed to ponder over something. He let out a short outcry.

"What?"

"Mycroft Holmes might know something about it. The fake paramedic call. What if it wasn't from Moriarty's gangs. I've been focusing on only one possibility. There's more. I have to see Mycroft."

"You're implying Mycroft could've been behind the call? Why?"

John's voice got lower,

"Sherlock. He might have asked Mycroft to protect me. In the pool...I still remember his face when I walked out from the shower booth with explosives laced around me. No, he couldn't. They were not even on speaking terms."

"John, hold on. Let's not jump the guns."

Lestrade tried to change the subject: John looked so lost.

" By the way, I heard Mycroft's still paying for 221B. Why did you move out?"

"Temporarily. Ella told me to move out as soon as possible. Harry wanted it, too. I'm staying with her. She yells at me now because she can't drink as much as she like."

John smiled sadly,

"The flat is too clean, quiet, and odorless. And his things scattered all over - the violin, the skull, the bullet holes on the wall,microscope... It's just so hard to look at his things. I had thought Mycroft would clean up the flat and got some items for personal memory. In _his_ bedroom, there is only one picture frame- a picture of Mycroft and Sherlock together. I thought Mycroft would have wanted it."

"You can stay in my place if you like. I mean..."

"If I overstay Harry's welcome... Thanks."

"I'm thinking about visiting _his_ grave tomorrow."

"Mrs. Hudson and I did a few days ago. It's strange. I just can't believe he's dead. I can feel his presence somehow."

He cleared his throat, and added.

" I'll contact Mycroft. The photo should be an ice-breaker, I think."

"Call me if you get some information. I can't shake off a feeling that there was more than we saw."

The doctor agreed, and they kept on talking about their detective friend.

* * *

**At the grave, three days later**

The cemetery was quiet with an occasional chirping of birds overhead. John tried to suppress the anger. His eyes counted the number of the roses in the vase that he had just placed. The well-dressed tall man asked,

"What did you see, John?"

"I saw him fall."

"You have to believe what you saw, John. I understand you desire to doubt everything but I had identified his body at the morgue."

"There are many things that his suicide can't explain. Mycroft. Answer me! Why did Lestrade get away with his admonition? Who's the second body? Is it Moriarty? Did he kill himself? Did he exist? Did you make a fake call on Mrs. Hudson being shot?"

The older Holmes took his time as if he were trying to choose his words carefully and spoke slowly without losing calm.

"Let me give you the answers to your questions, John. Lestrade didn't get away; he did receive a suspension. My brother's cases had been validated and it's a waste if Scotland Yard does not use such a resourceful man like Lestrade. The body found on the roof was Moriarty. Apparently he pulled the trigger with a gun in his mouth. I don't know who called you that morning. I did attempt to track it down. It was from a prepaid phone with a dummy sim card. It could be one of Moriarty's men."

John stuttered, feeling the blood flooding into his face.

"Moriarty could've forced Sherlock to jump."

"That's one possibility."

"Is there any other?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened at this. He decided to throw away the usual façade and get honest with the doctor although he knew his brother would never approve it. He already knew there had been three snipers trained on three people. Yet he decided to play it out. He laughed rather shakily and then muttered out.

"I think I can tell you as much. You're a soldier. You saw your buddies die in battles. You'll understand it."

"What will I understand?"

"Truth. Mind you we have no proof: there are no survivors. I've been questioning why my brother made such an extreme decision. The scandal. _He_ would have brushed it off. Why killed himself in a hurry?"

"And?"

"Moriarty must have done something to force my brother jump. Remember all those snipers around your flat? A sniper could have been trained on you, John, ready to pull the trigger if Sherlock hadn't..."

Mycroft couldn't finish his words as John's body swayed, registering the implication of what he had just heard. His voice broke,

"You mean I could've died if he hadn't jumped?"

"There might be more. Sherlock had mentioned three names to you. Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and Greg Lestrade. Four snipers, four bullets, and four victims. You all were to die."

He sighed, cleared his throat, and continued rather huskily.

"Moriarty had shot himself when he was winning. I think Moriarty was the key that could stop the snipers. My brother figured out how to stop him. The maniac had to kill himself to make Sherlock finish his game."

John turned pale. A painful memory surfaced.

_"You Machine. No, friends protect each other." _He "said" it, but Sherlock "did" it.

John slumped on the ground and buried his head in his hands. Mycroft remembered his last face-to-face conversation with Sherlock. His brother didn't say it loud yet he understood.

_I might be overdoing it, but I'm saying this for you, the thing you really wanted to tell him, Sherlock. _

He took a cracked mobile from his pocket and said,

"Thank you for the photo. I've got something for you, too. Here."

John raised his head slowly. His eyes found it, _his_ cracked mobile.

"As his brother, I got to keep it after the investigation. I think _he_ would've wanted you to have it."

Mycroft gently put the mobile on John's palm and turned around.

"John. Keep on living. My brother wanted you to live. That's why he took his own life."

Mycroft left without any more words. John didn't notice; he stared at the cracked screen for a long time. In hesitation, his shaky fingers moved to turn it on. He took out his own mobile, and called _his _number.

_Beep. Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message, and I'll contact you back. Beep._

John's eyes burned. Blinking, he pocketed the two mobiles and walked out of the cemetery. He was going back to the old flat. He had to live a full life for Sherlock Holmes, the least that he could do for his best friend.

* * *

Two years after the fall, John happened to visit his old flat at a "wrong" time.

Thanks for your reading. Comments are very welcome.

APW: UK version of APB(All Points Bulletin)

All the characters are fictional.


	3. Closure

This happened between John's fainting and everybody's listening to the detective. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews are very appreciated and welcome:-)

Timelinewise: chapter two Friends protect each other happens first, and then Chapter one Empty House, and Chapter three at the same time.

* * *

60 minutes ago

It was an ambush. The DI hadn't expected it. He stuttered out, "Police", but his feeble voice didn't impress the man. He gestured the DI to go upstairs at a gun point. Lestrade did as instructed. Unarmed. No choice. One thing was clear: the guy who ambushed him was a well-trained agent. Mrs. Hudson was squatting near John's old bed. Her eyes opened wider in obvious surprise.

"Inspector. Why are you here?"

"John called me. Are you okay?"

The agent near the window turned her head and asked in a low voice,

"John? Who is he? Explain."

"My former tenant."

"Our friend. He's on his way."

The woman nodded and whispered to the armed agents. She hurried out.

* * *

Sherlock's bedroom

The bed was moved to the wall. There were a couple of monitors installed. One screen showed Baker Street, the other, the second floors of the opposite building, and the third one, the windows of 221B: a shadow of the detective was visible with a violin. Holmes brothers were staring the screens intensely when the woman entered the room. After a minute both brothers' faces turned paler.

"John's coming?"

"Why today? Do you think we have to abort the plan?"

"We can't, Mycroft. We've got only one chance. Or it may take a few more years to track him down."

Sherlock pondered over something. He blurted out,

"He'll use a cab. At this time, traffic jam. Need to control the traffic. The earlier he gets here, the safer he is."

"To upstairs."

Mycroft gave a few instructions to the woman. When they were left alone, Mycroft saw fear in his brother's face. Sherlock whispered,

"Moran's going to be here any moment and John was his target."

"We'll take him off the scene fast. John's visit will make Moran believe more that you were standing near the window."

* * *

Mycroft saw Sherlock's shoulders stiffen and heard his breathing shorten. The detective had imagined many possible reunion scenarios yet this wasn't clearly one of them, not this fast. His little brother wasn't prepared at all.

"Sherlock. John decided to live for you. He will forgive you eventually."

The younger brother sensed a pitiful stare from Mycroft, and changed the topic.

"The mannequin... we need to turn it around at an irregular interval."

"Yes, they're doing it. The curtain is almost drawn. The window is rather dusty. He won't notice."

Soon they heard the downstairs door close. Both of them held their breath and listened, while John was unglamorously taken to his old bedroom. Then they waited.

Cracks. Shots. Mycroft relaxed a bit after a radio call,

"Moran's dead."

"Let's go."

The two brothers hurried out of the room and ran to the opposite building, where Moran was shot. Special agents were busy, checking and securing the scene. They checked the body of the sniper. The last member of Moriarty's inner circle, if small, was eliminated. The closure was near.

A few security and military people approached to consult with Mycroft. Sherlock darted back to his flat. When he entered the building, he heard John's footsteps and Lestrade's trying to calm down Mrs. Hudson. It was the moment that he had hoped and dreaded all along. Sherlock Holmes moved step by step to upstairs, racking his brain to find a proper word to say. Mycroft was on his heels.

Greg Lestrade froze on the spot with a gasp. His landlady started to sob. John was turning around when he heard the voice, "John."

* * *

"Is he all right?"

Sherlock's nervousness was palpable in his voice. Sherlock stared at John's pale face.

"He just fainted. He will come around soon."

Lestrade said, with his eyes fixed on the face of the detective. His fingers pinched Sherlock's cheek rather hard without a warning. Frowning, the detective complained,

"Ouch, what are you doing?"

"So you're not a ghost."

Mrs. Hudson wrapped Sherlock's hand with hers. Sherlock was almost like her own son. Her heart was torn apart piece by piece when she heard why Sherlock had to die.

"You, naughty boy. You really shouldn't have done it."

"All is well, Mrs. Hudson. I missed you. I'm sorry."

New tears welled up in her eyes, She grudgelingly let go of his hands and wiped away tears with her sleeves. He was forgiven already: the landlady managed to smile and he smiled back sheepishly. She stood up and said,

"I'll get some brandy and water. It might help him."

She hurried back to her flat to get the brandy.

Moments ago, when Lestrade helped Sherlock to move the doctor to the sofa. Lestrade was just opening his mouth. Sherlock simply said, "Later. Greg." as if he knew Greg was bursting with questions. Actually that was the first time that the detective called the DI with his first name: that shut the DI up.

Two agents took photos of the room and cleared away the mess. Paper covered the cracked window, shreds of china were cleaned up, and they took the mannequin out of the room.

Mycroft walked in when John stirred. The doctor's eyes blinked, and registered his dead friend and Mycroft. Even the great Sherlock Holmes failed to anticipate what happened next. John sprang up and crushed to the older Holmes with a great speed. The impact knocked both men on the floor and John punched Mycroft's face twice. Everybody froze. Lestrade pulled John apart from the British government. Mrs. Hudson shrieked in alarm as she came back with a tray of brandy and water. Mycroft staggered on the armchair while covering his bleedy nose with his hankerchief: his face was nothing but an amusement and pain. John freed himself, and growled manacingly,

"You knew he was alive all along and didn't say a damn word to me."

"For your safety, John."

"What?"

"John."

Sherlock called from behind. The doctor turned around and shot an icy glare at his flatmate, jerking out words at his ex-flatmate.

"I thought we were friends. You couldn't have kept me in the dark if you had considered me as your friend for a second."

"You ARE my friend."

John shook his head in denial. With clenched fists, he answered coldly.

"No, I don't think so."

Sherlock's face hardened a bit and Greg's eyes caught it. He cut in,

"Okay, girls. Let's sit down first."

Lestrade's exasperated voice silenced them. John and Lestrade sat on the sofa: the DI made it certain that John and Sherlock keep a certain distance. Sherlock leaned on the wall and thought hard about what to say. Ignoring John's glare wasn't easy. Today's event had to be a good start. The detective asked,

"Moran, Colonel Moran. Ring a bell, John?"

Breathing deeply not to lose it, John answered stiffly,

"Colonel Moran. Army. Yes. He was a legendary marksman, an excellent shooter. I heard he had left the army a few years ago."

"He was the right hand man of Moriarty. He was the sniper trained on you that day, John."

"What have you been doing, Sherlock, after your death? How did you survive after that?"

Lestrade interrupted in an obviously annoyed voice: he was thinking about the hell of the disciplinary committee hearing; the scandal that had rattled the Yard and endangered his career; and the pile of cold cases in Sherlock's absence.

"First of all, why didn't you come to us right away? Did you have to fake your death?"

The DI stopped abruptly, remembering the stupid attempt to arrest the detective. His face blushed in embarrassment, and the detective filled in before the silence became awkward.

"Well, Greg. There were snipers trained on you three. They had to believe I was dead and you shouldn't know I was alive. I was trying to move a step ahead of Moriarty and his cronies. My suicide had made it easier and I have been destroying Moriarty's network over the last two years."

Mycroft cut in,

"We set a trap, leaving traces of Sherlock back to the flat. Moran was about to hit Sherlock tonight."

"The mannequin."

"Yes, and you scared the hell out of us, John, when you walked into the flat."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson could feel the tensions building up. She could understand the bitterness that John was feeling. And the doctor was hungry. Food! It might relieve some of the excessive tension. She suggested in a pretense jolly voice.

"Well, shall we talk over soup? Everybody must be hungry."

Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson with the tray of soup bowls as he was apparently feeling uncomfortable under John's glare. As soon as the detective disappeared downstairs, Lestrade approached John. His eyes were asking the doctor to punch the detective, too. John whispered, "IN DUE TIME." and the two men sat on the arm chairs. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson came back with a tray of soup bowls and plates of grilled cheese and bread. She insisted the sleuth sit next to her and he couldn't refuse. Mycroft picked a piece of bread and grilled cheese and started to chew bite by bite. After one bite, he simply thought he wouldn't be able to understand his younger brother who had ignored Mrs. Hudson's cooking.

Sherlock's eyes met Mycroft's and his mouth crooked a bit. Then the detective started to talk about "how" he managed to survive the fall and "what" he had been doing over the last two years. The story was mesmerizing; even John's face softened a bit; everybody intently listened with wows and opps while the food was left forgotten by everybody (maybe except Mycroft Holmes who had his fill with grilled cheese and bread).

* * *

Hope you enjoyed this. In due time, John would make it sure that Sherlock would not dare to pull the stunt again. Thanks for reading.


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